Pills Bridges Nooses Guns There are a hundred avenues To escape the future But not a single road to escape the past Yet sometimes I still mourn the past The sting Of ink seeping into the bone Careening through the bloodstream Cleaving, widowing vacant pores Feel the sunlight splashing down Burning Enlightening our shaven heads Refracting authority Signaling, taunting rival carnales Hear Richie Valens through the static Serenading Strumming lost
The following essay/poem was written by Brandon Loran Maxwell in the spirit of the 1864 Russian novella “Notes From The Underground” by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I am a loving man, soulless by disposition; a forgiving man, vindictive by circumstance. I am an innocent man, but I am a monster. Another might say I am two men, or even say I am no man at all. But what another says is of little consequence.
Below is a link to a one act play written by Brandon Loran Maxwell about drug and alcohol addiction. The play was written to be read in a rhythmic format. It is free to use for educational and non-profit purposes as long as the original author is credited. Petal By Petal Brandon Loran MaxwellBrandon Loran Maxwell is a Mexican American writer, speaker and essayist. His writings have appeared at The
A headless songbird toils to sing, Mourns the gusts he might have flown. Forlorn to a ravaged wing, Below a sky he’s since outgrown. His aches confirm he’s gotten old, And can’t return what he now owns. Waning outside in the cold, His feathers gently twirl to bones. Assist I would this withered bird, Yet here I laze as if a stone. Near my windowpane alone, To this bird my
words oh, those forgotten swords that once danced through our ears and tantalized our bones no teeth forked pledges silver brothels only peace twenty and six alibis strung together like beads showered behind the sun when, I wonder, did the valley ears turn coat? join the machine of vacant clouds over shallow, cowardly graveyards of the unimaginative who woke the dreamer? told the virgin: drink flesh renounce ink dare not
Her eyes were hazel like the whiskey I sat down to drown myself in Her stiletto heels cruel, unforgiving Vowing, if not plotting, to stomp the world Of all its bigotry and hatred If, only the world would listen. But I listened because I was not a part of the world I was a part of the lost tribe—that great tribe Of wanderers and misfits Of convicts and drunkards Of